 | The harp and plow |  |
AUGUST—MY BIRTH-MONTH.
God of the years! the month is born,
The month peculiarly my own,
When I, to lead life's hope forlorn,
All helpless on the world was thrown!
The month peculiarly my own,
When I, to lead life's hope forlorn,
All helpless on the world was thrown!
August, thou month of months to me!
Not for the beauty of thy scenes;
Not harvests gladdening to see;
But fast on thee my memory leans.
Not for the beauty of thy scenes;
Not harvests gladdening to see;
But fast on thee my memory leans.
Not, as the poet sang, do I
‘Dim backward’ on thy memories look;
Distinctly on the past they lie
Like pictures painted in a book.
‘Dim backward’ on thy memories look;
Distinctly on the past they lie
Like pictures painted in a book.
I've seen the arrow fly by day;
I've seen the pestilence walk by night;
And once beneath thy scathing ray
Death hid a cherub from my sight.
I've seen the pestilence walk by night;
And once beneath thy scathing ray
Death hid a cherub from my sight.
61
Those torrid days and solemn eves,—
The cricket's dull and dreamy sound;
The moonlight, shivered by the leaves,
All ghastly flickering on the ground!
The cricket's dull and dreamy sound;
The moonlight, shivered by the leaves,
All ghastly flickering on the ground!
Like as the soldier, who survives
The battle's rage and carnage sore,
Will wonder how it is he lives,
When thinking all its perils o'er;—
The battle's rage and carnage sore,
Will wonder how it is he lives,
When thinking all its perils o'er;—
E'en so do I look back and see
All the grim scenes thro' which I've pass'd,
And wonder how remains for me
The mortal conflict and the last.
All the grim scenes thro' which I've pass'd,
And wonder how remains for me
The mortal conflict and the last.
Blent with the seasons is our life;
E'en so it springs, e'en so departs;
And tokens of a mortal strife
Are monthly graven on our hearts.
E'en so it springs, e'en so departs;
And tokens of a mortal strife
Are monthly graven on our hearts.
But there's another life to come;
The thoughtful know and feel it sure;
Where virtue shall attain its home,
And worth be honored that is pure.
The thoughtful know and feel it sure;
Where virtue shall attain its home,
And worth be honored that is pure.
A sort of harvest 't will appear,—
A mighty gathering of the grain;
But many a sheaf called noble here,
Will not be counted so again.
A mighty gathering of the grain;
But many a sheaf called noble here,
Will not be counted so again.
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Yes, the great Reaper, we are told
Shall be the judge of all the earth;
Things by right names shall then be called:
Pride will be pride, and worth be worth.
Shall be the judge of all the earth;
Things by right names shall then be called:
Pride will be pride, and worth be worth.
| The harp and plow | |